


The beauty unfounded

by Glassplakton



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 11:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12131991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassplakton/pseuds/Glassplakton
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov is a Right Brain; artistic, innovative and creative. He spends his days drawing and creating beautiful portraits for clients that hire him.  Or he used to.Yuuri Kasuki is a Left Brain; analytical, objective and logical. He spends his days in school, preparing himself to become a teacher. And it was all going well, until it wasn't.In a society where you're identification determines your rights and success, two indviduals struggle to survive, but more importantly live and live life to the fullest.And when you're living on borrowed time, you try to make the best of every moment.





	The beauty unfounded

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration is a dangerous thing. I'm sitting in my bed and suddenly, I'm hit with inspiration. So this little story was born and I've debated wether to post this, seeing as it could go horribly wrong or just be boring, but hey that's progress. Anyway, enjoy and updates will be slow, like really slow. So if you get attached and enthralled easily... you have been warned.

Viktor’s feet take him to the park across the street. It's a neutral zone, which means it isn't like the other parks around the city. Its atmosphere is more lively.

The trees aren't planted in perfectly symmetrical rows. The grass isn't perfectly green, but mismatched instead. Oddly enough, it reminds him of a patchwork quilt.

Of course, since it is a neutral park, it's a mix of Left and Right Brains. While some play on the grass, mostly Right Brains, others sit under the manmade shelters, papers, and laptops sprawled across their tables. Those people are the Left Brains.

But he turns his attention away from them, as he makes his way along the smoky red path. 

Viktor’s fingers grip the worn satchel that hangs on his shoulder. His other hand stays limply at his side and brushes against the fabric of his pants.

The sun beats down on him, making him aware just how hot it is. He starts to regret the long black pants and white dress shirt that he is wearing. But having just abandoned his shift at the Café, he hadn't time to change, especially when Yurio had been keeping a close eye on him.

There is a vacant bench ahead of him. With a slightly more hurried pace, he makes his way over. 

A large tree from behind him offers him refuge from the heat. Viktor sits there for a moment, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He listens to the sounds around him; the beautiful laughter, distant conversations, the electronic beeps, the sound of a violin, and the chirping of the birds. 

Then he opens his eyes and pulls the satchel onto his lap. His fingers start to shake as he works it open.

It's been a few week since he's drawn anything. He used to spend his nights drawing and painting till the sun rose and his eyes were drooping. It was a cycle of sorts; drawing, sleeping, coffee (if Yurio is in a giving mood) and drawing again. It was how he made a living. It was his passion and purpose.

Now, something's changed, he's apathetic and hesitant. 

Still, he pulls out his sketchbook and flips it open. It's blank pages taunt him, as he thumbs through them carefully.

It used to be so easy to draw anything he wanted, now instead of seeing the beauty around him, finding the joy in his life, all he sees is the imperfections that have likely been there the whole time.

Maybe he's just being melodramatic. Perhaps, his creative rut will pass and he can again find the motivation to create something he'll be proud of. But he doesn't think so. More likely, he won't. He only has a month left after all.

If Viktor’s being honest, he never expected to be a recipient of a letter. He was always too busy in his studio, at festivals or in the company of others. He'd assured himself that he'd never need to worry about them. He was a known artist, renowned for his beautiful drawings.

He convinced himself that it would never be him. He never even entertained the idea.

But that’s not the case now. Because what he deemed impossible, is now sitting in his room on his desk. It's torn and ripped with crinkles along the paper, showing just how tight his hands clutched it.

It's his reality now. 

Suddenly, the scuffling of shoes alerts him, making his head jerk up.

The stranger trudges past him, head down and posture slouched. His light blue dress shirt is wrinkled and stained. The pants he wears drag on the path after him, dirtying the fabric. There is something sorrowful about the way he walks, like he is being weighed down by an overwhelming, invisible force.

Viktor watches, eyes following the other, as he continues on and plops down on a bench nearby. For a few moments, all Viktor's does is stare at the sight, at this stranger that has managed to capture his attention. 

He knows in a way, that he should stop staring and he swears he's going to turn away, going to look at the book in his lap and put the pencil to the paper. He going to attempt to draw the landscape in front him, not… 

But he's still staring. The stranger is curled forward and seems to be shuddering. From the side, Viktor makes out the glasses curling around his ear and his ears can hear the faint sniffling coming from him.

It's a sad sight and makes Viktor feel uncomfortable. He wishes he could do something, he hates to see people hurting, it's depressing. But he can't very well go over there and make nice with the other. He doesn't know his designation and from the clothing, he is not an RB.

Sobs rack the other’s frame and the dark haired man shakily grabs at the pocket of his pants. When a cellular is revealed, Viktor knows for sure that this man is not an RB.

Viktor forces himself to look away. He swallows and stares out at the landscape in front of him. The people who move across the grass, the sounds of laughter, the birds in the trees and… the sobbing.

The sketchbook sits in his lap, the pencil in his hand. And somehow his hands are moving delivering long strokes and short abrupt lines, he's applying pressure, he's easing up, but it's not a landscape he's drawing. 

He lets his hand move across the page and create the picture and he doesn't stop, he should. He doesn't know why he's doing this, but…

He finally turns and looks at the other, the stranger. But what he sees makes his hand freeze. The other is staring at him, brown eyes roam over him in a tired and nonchalant manner.

The stranger's face is slightly red and his glasses are speckled with tears. The stranger sends him a thin shaky smile. 

It takes a minute for Viktor to react, but he shakes himself out of being dazed. And he doesn't know why he does it, but his lips spread into a large beaming smile. A genuine smile because something is different about this stranger.

It's like all the impending situations in Viktor's life have frozen, they freeze in time and he sits on a bench staring and smiling at a stranger. He doesn't know why.

The man’s cheeks go a slightly pink and he ducks his head down in an embarrassed manner. Viktor can't help but be amused, he shakes his head and looks down at his sketch book. 

He alternates between his book and the man off to the side. A sculpted chin. Rounded cheeks and beautiful brown eyes. Plush pink lips. Cute button nose. And… since Viktor is the artist he's going to take some liberties. He adds a beautiful smile to the portrait.

He quickly glances up, but the bench off to the side is empty. The stranger is gone.


End file.
